


The Violence that Surrounds You

by bodyelectric (grantairas)



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, sound familiar? a haha hahah a, there's some pretty painful foreshadowing in here i'm not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grantairas/pseuds/bodyelectric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Achilles fights, and for love no less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Violence that Surrounds You

**Author's Note:**

> so i haven't written anything in like a year but i'm in college now you know how that is  
> comments are always nice to read :+)

They are lying under the shade of Pelion’s trees, entwined, Achilles with his fingers tracing, again and again, the line of Patroclus’ cheekbone. Their eyes never leave each other, not for a moment, and Patroclus knows already what the answer will be, but he has to ask it.

“What will happen if your mother finds out?”

Achilles does not hesitate. “I do not care.”

Patroclus sits up, and Achilles’ hand falls away, but his eyes are unwavering. The breeze stirs the wildflowers around them to life.

“You mean more to me than anything she could do. I promise you that, Patroclus.”

If it were anyone else, Patroclus would be sure they were speaking from childish naivety, from the stubbornness of not wanting to let go of their newfound love. But this is Achilles, and Achilles was made to fight, for country, for honor, for what he loves. And Patroclus understands.

He lies back down, and Achilles reaches for him again, this time letting his hand come to rest on Patroclus’ waist.

“She cannot see us here, anyway,” Patroclus says. His fingers brush against Achilles’ thigh.

“She cannot see us,” Achilles says, smiling.

They bring themselves closer together, and slowly, they kiss, the echo of their first time still present. Patroclus can feel the smile shaping Achilles’ lips, and he thinks, _This is the way I would have it, lifetime after lifetime_.

 

On Skyros, the sun beats down on the cliff faces, but Achilles and Patroclus take shelter in their shared room. Achilles lies with his face pressed against Patroclus’ neck, and Patroclus strokes the muscles of his back and his side, fingers skipping against the slight rise and fall of his ribs.

“I am so glad you came for me,” Achilles says, muffled by the sun-darkened skin against his mouth.

“I am glad I found you,” Patroclus answers softly.

“I don’t know how much longer I could have gone.” Achilles turns, chin propped against Patroclus’ chest. “Being without you.”

Patroclus smiles, lets his hand slip to the small of Achilles’ back. He had forgotten, almost, how much he loved the feeling of skin under his, knowing smiles, gold-green eyes widening. In the time they had been apart he had not realized how much he longed for these small things; in those weeks, he had thought only of Achilles, how to get to him.

His thoughts are interrupted by Achilles pressing himself closer. “Can I tell you something?” he whispers against Patroclus’ ear. Patroclus turns his head just enough to feel Achilles’ breath warm his lips.

“Yes?”

“When I was with Deidamia, I tried to pretend she was you.”

This makes Patroclus’ face flush, until Achilles says, “It didn’t work.” His face breaks into his radiant smile, and Patroclus follows. They laugh together, as they used to, careless, happy, free. Together.

 

Odysseus knows; Patroclus can tell by his eyes. His gaze shifts to Achilles, then to Patroclus, lingering as Patroclus only stares back. When Achilles says with an unnerving tautness in his voice, “It is no business of yours,” Odysseus lets it be, but Patroclus cannot stop worrying about it, about Achilles’ mother, sure to carry out another way to separate him from the burden of Patroclus’ presence.

Patroclus had known all along that this is what he was to be. Achilles’ weakness, his shame, the whispers and questioning gazes following him despite the weight of his name. When Thetis had said it, he could not disagree. He had no honor written into his fate, not like Achilles, who had only honor to live for.

Patroclus knows this, and he offers to sleep outside. The moment he says it, Achilles stands. Patroclus has no reason to be afraid, but he knows he would not want to be the man targeted by Achilles’ rage.

“Let them say what they say and think what they think. It does not concern me. If I am to fight for them, they will have to accept your being here, too.”

“But it could disgrace-”

“Let it. You are not being taken from me. I will not allow it.”

Patroclus can say nothing more. He feels the swelling relief of knowing he is safe with Achilles. No one can change that.

 

Years into the war, Achilles is still protecting Patroclus when they go into battle. He could say he doesn’t need it, but it does not matter; it makes him dizzy to think he is so loved, so cherished, and still he feels the same intensity for Achilles. That does not change when he is surrounded by bloodshed and death. In some ways, it is only made stronger.

When Patroclus stays in the camp and spends his time attending to the wounded, he always leaves to see Achilles return. Achilles slips off his helmet and his eyes find Patroclus immediately, and they walk to their tent hand in hand. Achilles does not care who sees anymore. “I want them all to know you are mine,” he whispers, and Patroclus could die to the sound of his voice saying those words, honeyed and eternal.

 

When his life ends, his last thought is of Achilles.

He wishes to be with Achilles one last time. Not as he is now, just this fluttering shade, but as they were: boys in a forest, boys on a beach, men in armor who loved each other despite the stories that had been created for them before they were born. He wants to reach out and touch him, feel him again, but Achilles’ arms touch only the night air when he reaches out. Patroclus feels what is left of him breaking.

He watches as Achilles kills. He is merciless, as perhaps he always was, but now he is another creature entirely, blind to the spear and the sword and what they leave in his wake. His voice is raw from screaming Hector’s name in the day and from crying Patroclus’ at night. He does not eat, he does not sleep, and Patroclus aches for him. He always did, but this pain is something else. He cannot bear it.

He wants nothing more than to rest. To rest and wait for Achilles’ arrival. He knows it is coming. Achilles does too, knows it even as Hector’s breath stops, as his body is dragged through Troy’s bloodstained dirt. He whispers to Patroclus’ body in their tent, “I will be there soon.” He says it over and over, like it is the only thing left for him. Patroclus’ heart breaks to know that it is.

 


End file.
